


A Study of Watson

by dangirlphillie



Category: British Actor RPF, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Existential Crisis, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2019-11-23 19:52:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18156308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dangirlphillie/pseuds/dangirlphillie
Summary: Martin Freeman wakes up from a coma to discover that he is now living the life of John Watson of Season 1 Sherlock. No one in this universe knows Arthur Conan Doyle, the show Sherlock, and has never heard of the actor Martin Freeman. While Martin struggles to adapt to this alternate reality, he finds himself entangled with the detective he'd grown to know so well on T.V.Sherlock Holmes is just as brilliant as he was written for T.V., and Martin struggles to balance his own desires with that of John's. Will he show more bravery than his television counterpart for his feelings for the detective? And is there anyway he will ever make it back to the timeline he once knew?





	1. Goodbye Martin Fucking Freeman

“Hello?”

“Bloody hell—Dr. Melrose, he’s awake!”

He’d barely gotten his eyes open—it was so damn bright.

“Okay, I’m coming… Hello, sir, my name is Dr. Alfred Melrose and I’m here to inform you that you’ve just woken up from a coma.”

“… What?”

“I’ll explain everything in a moment, but let’s start with some questions. First of all, what is your legal name?”

“Martin Freeman.”

A pause that lasts too long. He’s got his eyes open finally and standing before him in an overweight doctor and a nurse with too much make up on. The hospital room was dingy, not what he expected of the hospitals near set.

“Sir… Your name is John Hamish Watson.”

“Very funny.”

“Funny? Your blood tests and dog tags confirmed it.”

“You know joking around doesn’t equate to a good bedside manner. How did I go into a coma? Can I see my kids?”

“Your only next of kin listed was your sister Harriet.”

“I get it, you’re a fan of the show. Now can someone tell me how I got into a bloody coma? How long have I been out?”

The doctor whispered something to the nurse, who hastily exited the room looking frightened. The doctor cleared his throat awkwardly and sat on the end of Martin’s bed. He’s got a look on his face, one that is infuriatingly placating and worrisome at the same time. He also appeared a touch afraid.

“Mr. Watson, we are going to run some scans to fully assess the damage in a moment here, but I can tell you with full certainty your legal name is John Hamish Watson. Your sister was in here only a few hours ago visiting. You’ve been in a coma for two months now from blood loss. I know you are likely having some memory issues, so maybe this Martin fellow was someone you met in battle. Regardless, we will get it all sorted out soon, so there is no need to panic,” said the doctor. He reached foreword to pat Martin’s hand in an assuring manner, but Martin ripped it away.

“Did the blokes on set put you up to this? Did I hit my head off an overhead light or something? This really won’t make for good press, mind you, and I’m not afraid to blast it on social media,” threatened Martin.

“I’m not sure what you are talking about. You were shot in Afghanistan. The exit wound is in your shoulder. Can you feel it?”

Martin had felt it, but assumed that the dull ache was just from sitting down for so long. Really, he hadn’t taken the time to assess his extremities. He was too pissed.

“Yeah, yeah, just like in the show, right? What’s next, is Ben going to walk in an tell me we have a case? Fuck off. Where’s my phone? I need to talk to my agent and figure out what the fuck happened on set that landed me here,” said Martin. Likewise, when he twisted around to check the side table for his phone, a shooting pain ran up his shoulder and into the tendons of his neck. He hissed and collapsed foreword. Despite numerous scuffles as a teenager and plenty of accidents on sets, Martin never felt pain like that before. It was both blazing and numbing, and took a moment for Martin to catch his breath again.  

“Sir, you’ve been shot. I would highly advise against trying to get up right now. I can get you your phone, but when we called your emergency contacts all you had listed was your sister. There isn’t a set or an agent—ah! Miriam! Yes, here, John this is our trauma specialist, she will help you with processing all of this.”

Martin rolled his eyes. If this were for some kind of reality TV show, he was going to get someone fired. Fucking hell. He couldn’t remember anything that happened or even how he ended up in the damn hospital bed. And really, why were all these people so bent on pretending he was John Watson?

More importantly, what the hell happened to his shoulder?

Still throbbing with pain, Martin settled back against his pillow and nodded when Miriam, the nurse, handed him his phone. Only, it wasn’t Martin’s iPhone but John’s slider phone. From Season 1.

“Is this a fucking joke?” growled Martin, slamming the phone against the mattress. As the “trauma specialist” sat down next to Martin, he turned his head away like a belligerent child, only to discover a mirror hanging on the opposite wall to his bed. Upon seeing the mirror, Martin couldn’t help but let his mouth fall agape.

Sure, he liked to think he didn’t age much since the first season, but there were differences, 9 years took a toll on anyone. More lines on his face here or there, a bit of weight gain, a difference in his hair color, certainly. There was clearly a difference between 47 and 38, no matter what anyone said. And the Martin staring back in the mirror? That was 38 year old Martin Freeman.

Or, if the people around him were to be trusted, John Hamish Watson.

“Mr. Watson? I have a few questions for you,” said the trauma specialist.

“You think you have questions,” muttered Martin in shock.

* * *

 

After the incident with the mirror, it didn’t take much more convincing for Martin to realize that this was some sort of fucked up alternate reality, a dream, or possibly (most likely) hell. He’d fallen on set, probably on something embarrassing like a prop or over ice, bonked his head, and promptly evacuated the entire fucking world as he knew it. Despite the fact Martin had no clue how he’d ended up in this world, somehow he was there, clear as day. This was a universe where he was, legally, John Hamish Watson.

Only it extended beyond legality. To his despair, Martin Freeman, and Martin Freeman’s entire family, didn’t exist in this universe.  No one had ever heard of Arthur Conan Doyle. His paychecks were no longer 6 figures, but just enough military funding to get by. Parts of it were comical—it wasn’t like Martin really cared about the loss of Hollywood glamour, and certainly there was no love lost for the paparazzi—but holy shit if there wasn’t both emotional and existential despair over the fact that Martin’s fucking kids, his ex-wife, his best friends—none of them existed. His whole life, career, and family were all gone, or worse, imagined. When “John” was assigned a therapist, he walked into the room to discover Tanya Moodie, only it wasn’t Tanya, the British actress on the BBC, but Ella, a concerned and patient therapist. He didn’t bother trying to explain this odd phenomena, at first, but like the Ella written by Steven and Mark themselves, she managed to have a bit of a break through. Well, after a few weeks, and a lot of griping on Martin’s part.

                “There is a likelihood that your brain filled in the gaps. These could all be people you encountered in real life and, in some meta narrative, you created a perfect world where you weren’t here actually experiencing the pain of your reality, just playing it on T.V.”

                It made sense, but Martin hated it.

                “But it wasn’t perfect. In what world would I imagine a very public, very messy divorce? And it was all in such vivid detail. Not to mention I don’t remember meeting you or Ben or anyone like that before the accident. Wasn’t I supposedly in the military?”

                “But doesn’t this world have just as much detail? Come on, John, you’ve told me so much about your military experience. Your family. Your life growing up.”

                She was right, yet again. More and more Martin felt memories bubbling up to the surface like fish dying in a pond, floating to the top, all distinct and clear and painful. Sure, he’d imagined this type of backstory when fleshing out his portrayal of Watson, but to actually feel the pain and longing of his made up childhood was a whole other game. It wasn’t play acting anymore. It really sucked to be John Watson.

                That was the other odd part—part of Martin truly felt like he _was_ John. It was sort of like those moments he and Ben got really into a scene, the kind the Martin lived for where he just got lost in the character, lost in that other world, when everything flowed and jived so well the cameras all but melted away and he _was_ the character. That was how he was beginning to feel all the time, only Martin was still in there. Some nights, Martin had taken to keep a journal detailing stuff from his old life, like a bad fan page listing his birthday, his interests, his ex-girlfriend’s names. He felt, as time went on, that he was walking between two worlds and he truly was two people at once.

                “I know, but this isn’t how it was. I _am_ Martin Freeman, just as much as I _am_ John Watson,” said Martin. Ella wrote a note on her clipboard and in a way that was very unpolite, very Martin, not Watson, he rolled his eyes and scoffed “And don’t you bloody write ‘multiple personalities disorder’ or I will scream.”

                “We usually call it ‘dissassociative identity disorder’ and that wasn’t what I was writing. Although I do want you to explain to me how you could feel like two people at once.”

                The answer was in the way Martin reacted. Usually, Martin Freeman—actor, father, normal person—would respond with a quip of some sort, something a little biting but charming enough to be disarming. As he opened his mouth to speak, however, some part of his brain that was John Watson—ex-military, thrill seeker, repressed bisexual—immediately wanted to clam up and politely hold in any feelings as to keep everyone at arm’s length. It made Martin a little dizzy, but at last he spoke a middle ground that seemed to appease both sides of him.

                “I don’t know. It seems that sometimes I don’t know how to… live my truth, or whatever. It doesn’t make much sense. Is there a medication that I can take to make this all stop?”

He wasn’t sure who was asking that, John or Martin. Ella tipped her head to the side with a frown.

                “I don’t think we are there yet. Actually, since our session is coming to a close today, let’s figure out what we are going to do to help with this. My personal suggestion is that maybe you spend some time with John Watson’s friends. Maybe that will help you feel a bit more in touch with your truth.”

                Martin decided not to quip back about John having no friends, bar an upcoming “high functioning sociopath” he had yet to meet, and left the session feeling more hopeless than ever.

                As he sat in the cab on his way home, however, Martin began to wonder how this universe would function. Would he run into an old colleague while out who would introduce him to a man who looked stunningly like Ben, but acted like a complete lunatic? Or was he instead destined to the alternate hell where Watson stewed in his lonely post-war misery until the day he died?

                More importantly, did Martin have any say in the narrative?

* * *

 

                Neither outcome occurred as the next morning, Martin woke with the sunrise. Both Martin and John were early risers: Martin, from erratic shooting schedules, and John, from the military service. It seemed that before his eyes even opened, Martin knew what he was going to do that day. He shoveled down some tea and toast, then hopped in the next cab, bound for St. Bart’s Hospital.

                In Martin’s world, most of the show was shot in Cardiff. St. Bart’s was actually one of the few London locations, but it was just a random building on Smithfield street. Likewise, in this world Martin was able to look up the location on GPS (mind you, since it was suddenly 2010 again, he used Mapquest. Fucking, _Mapquest_ ).

                It was odd, but if Martin walked with enough sense of security, people didn’t seem to stop him. Sure, if someone asked him what he was doing, he could inform him of John Watson’s doctor position, but really Martin just needed to appeared assured as he headed down the hallways to his destination. This wasn’t hard—he was an actor after all. It took a while but eventually he hunted down the room he was looking for.

                Without knocking on the door, Martin breezed in to find—just as in the show—Ben slapping a corpse with a belt. Only it wasn’t Ben, but rather the character he played on the show. Ben and Sherlock held themselves differently. Martin was sure he did the same to an extent, but really he wasn’t as physical an actor as Ben. It was something he greatly admired about his friend’s skills. As soon as he stopped to look at him Ben—er, Sherlock’s—face scrunched up as his eyes scanned Martin’s body.

                Now in the show, Sherlock’s deductions included a lot of music and catchy close ups, editing that was both interesting while also a little cheesy. Martin had been on both sides of the screen, however, so he knew what it was like to stand in odd silence as Ben watched him with a concentrated look on his face. Usually the cameramen, at this point, would get uncomfortably close to both of them, using giant lenses to film Martin’s shirt sleeve, Ben’s eyes, the like, and they were some of the most boring scenes to shoot because typically they just stood there for up to an hour just making faces at each other. In between shots, Ben and Martin usually had a good laugh. Just remembering it made something inside Martin’s chest hurt because the man standing before him clearly wasn’t Ben, and it made Martin miss him all the more.

                “Um, hullo,” said Martin in his John Watson voice. He frowned. Sometimes, John just seemed to slip out without him noticing.

                “Hello,” replied Sherlock, non-plussed. Without Stamford to introduce him, Martin felt a little silly barging in like this. Furthermore, Sherlock wasn’t delivering the usual lines, the ones where he assumed John’s military service, and whatnot. Instead he was watching Martin with a puzzled look on his face. Martin cleared his throat.

                “Look, I swear I’m not a crazy person, but—”

                “Typically, that’s how many crazy people introduce themselves, but do go on,” replied Sherlock. His gaze penetrated Martin in the concentrated way that Ben mastered years ago, but a new emotion welled up inside Martin. His stomach, of it’s own accord, erupted into butterflies, and the need to suppress this feeling came with it. It was John’s reaction, but not the one Martin was expecting. He swallowed it down.

                “I, um, well—I have a case for you and I also need a place to stay. I know—I mean, I heard you solve cases and needed a roommate. Two birds with one stone, yeah?” asked Martin. In response, Sherlock rolled his eyes.

                “Well I knew you needed a roommate, I could tell by—”

                “Yeah, yeah, the scratches on my phone or whatever the lines were. I get it, you can read me like a book. Let’s just skip the deduction thing for now, right? I’ve heard it a million times and I just want to skip ahead to the part where we already know each other,” said Martin. As soon as he spoke, the look on Sherlock’s face made him snap his mouth shut. Unlike John, Martin struggled to filter his thoughts. If his intention was to not seem like a crazy person, then it probably wasn’t coming across well if he started predicting the future all the time. Of course, Sherlock didn’t look perturbed by this as much as he looked intrigued.

                “Afghanistan or Iraq?” he asked. Martin suppressed a frustrated groan.

                “Afghanistan. But look, I just need—”

                “And at what point did you lose your memory?” asked Sherlock. Martin paused, blinking in confusion. Maybe it was naivety, but without the writers behind him, he’d assumed that maybe Sherlock would be less spot on in real life. Almost without warning, the line he’d delivered years ago came bubbling up as John took the reins.

                “… I’m sorry, but how did you know—”

                Right on cue, Louise Brealey entered the room, only she was really Molly Hooper. Martin took his eyes away from Sherlock for a moment to watch her. God, he just wanted to reach out and ask Louise what was going on. The urge to shake the people around him until they started talking like his castmates was overwhelming. But really, this wasn’t Louise, but clearly Molly, timid and sweet.

                “Coffee! Thank you, Molly. What happened to the lipstick?” chanted Sherlock, taking the cup from her hands. Still, unlike the actual scene he was far less distracted by his work and more interested in the man before him. As he spoke, his eyes never left Martin’s face.

                Louise, well, Molly rather, fluttered her eyelashes nervously.

                “It… wasn’t working for me,” she said.

                “Really? I thought it was a big improvement—mouth’s too small now,” quipped Sherlock. Now that it wasn’t a line, and a camera wasn’t in between them, it came across to Martin just how rude that was, although he had little room to talk. Still, Ben would be apologizing for that to Louise as soon as the cameras turned off, ever the polite sweetheart even though Mark was the one writing the lines.

                He continued to watch Martin, as Molly delivered her next line.

                “…. Okay,” she said meekly. Man, Martin forgot how lovestruck she was in the first episode. Poor Molly. She nodded and scurried out of the room, not meeting Martin’s eyes as she left.

                “How do you feel about the violin?” asked Sherlock, right on cue. Luckily, Martin didn’t need to deliver the next lines, didn’t need to put on a show of exposition for the audience.

                “It’s fine, I love it, actually. If you play, I’m down. More importantly, how did you know I lost my memories?” asked John. Sherlock rolled his eyes, then held out his hand.

                “Can I borrow your phone?” asked Sherlock.

                “Sure, it’s a piece of shit anyway,” replied Martin. He handed the taller man the slider phone. Maybe Martin was a bit of a princess now, but not only was this an old phone, but it wasn’t even an iPhone. They had iPhones in 2010, was it really necessary for the writers to make John such a stick-in-the-mud?

                Sherlock began texting as he spoke.

                “You said you had a case for me. Clearly, you’re single, as indicated by the fact that while you don’t have enough money to support living on your own, hence the need for a roommate, you are still wearing a nice watch and decent clothing for your first time out of the house in a while. So it’s nothing to do with a cheating spouse, which is usually the types of cases brought to me. You’re military, so if it were anything serious, like espionage, you have officials to report to without a need for me. Finally—this one is simple, really—you’ve got this dazed look on your face like you’re experiencing what lesser minds call de-ja-vu. But you’re right—you’re not crazy and you’re not out of sorts. Earlier you mentioned I looked at your ‘phone or whatever’ to know you were from Afghanistan, which was a nice guess, clearly shows you have some familiarity with my deduction techniques, but no. Your phone, rather showed me that you’ve got a brother with a bit of money who’s worried about you, but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him - possibly because he’s an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. On top of that you walk with a physcosomatic limp, but you refuse to carry a cane, showing to me that you’re in denial of some kind of issues. I would guess that means you’ve been injured, but the injury is beyond physical, it’s like something of your identity has been taken away. Part of that is leaving the army, part of that is losing your memories. I’m terribly correct, I’m afraid, and I’ve got myself a nice little place in central London—together we can afford. We’ll meet there together at 7 o’clock,” replied Sherlock. He finished texting and held the phone out for Martin, who watched him dumbfounded.

                Yes, he’d heard a bunch of those lines before, but Sherlock really was just as impressive as the man on the page.

                “That was… amazing,” muttered Martin, or maybe it was John. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

                “Do you think so?” he asked. More butterflies fluttered in Martin’s stomach.

 He and Ben talked about this in length. Both agreed, particularly during season 1, that what happened between John and Sherlock truly was a love story. Maybe it wasn’t a sexual love story, but there was a coming together of two inevitable forces nonetheless, and they brought out the best in each other. Martin remembered this moment, in filming, and Ben said something along the lines of “This when he gets the first inkling that he’s into you. Everything before this moment John was a regular person, but now he’s something special because he’s the first one to see Sherlock the way he wants to be seen.”

                “Well of course it was. It was extraordinary. Quite extraordinary,” said Martin. He made sure to say the lines word for word, because in this moment he needed to lean back on being John, even if he didn’t understand why.

                Sherlock lost his gaze, and in a shy way looked at the floor. In the original script, they had this conversation in the cab, so it was easier to avoid each other’s eyes as they looked out at the city of London going past. But now they were doing this here—right in scene 1, Bart’s morgue—and it felt more intimate, somehow.

                “That’s not what people usually say,” replied Sherlock. Martin knew the next two lines, but said it anyway.

                “What do they usually say?” he asked. Sherlock finally looked up, a cocky little grin painting the side of his lips, very much Sherlock and not at all like Ben.

                “Piss off,” he said.

Even though he’d heard it a million times before, Martin still laughed, and suddenly felt very in the moment. All existential crisis aside, something about this warmth, this connection between John and Sherlock, felt familiar. It wasn’t the same as having Ben back, but it at least felt a little more familiar than the rest of this strange alternate world. Just like how John felt the need to follow Sherlock, for completely different reasons it was clear Martin needed him too. To what capacity, Martin was still unsure, but since he knew where this was heading he knew that soon enough he would figure it out.


	2. Little Conversations

Martin was uncertain about a lot, but one of the oddest aspects of being John Watson was the unexpected bursts of suppressed attraction. Sure, Martin always had a notion John was in love with Sherlock, but, God, the man was a mess half of the time.

For instance, as the stood in the crime scene for A Study in Pink, Martin watched Sherlock as he worked, speaking aloud some of his deductions as he examined the dead body. Martin expected certain emotions to bubble up. He figured John would be in awe of Sherlock, or maybe intrigued by the mystery, or possibly even a little embarrassed when asked to give his medical opinion. Likewise, out of nowhere, a thought popped up in Martin’s head, loudly and in his “John Watson voice.”

_What is wrong with me? Why do I find this so attractive? He’s looking at a dead body. Nothing about this situation is sexy. I need to stop doing this._

Martin’s head spun with visceral feelings of both attraction and shame. It was enough to make him stagger a bit, drawing the eyes of Lestrade and Anderson. Martin rightened himself with an embarrassed smile.

_Yo, Watson, could you budge off? Seriously, I don’t have time for your dumb little crush on Ben. There are more pressing matters, don’t you think?_

Martin didn’t expect to hear a response.

_I don’t have a crush on him! I don’t know how many times I have to tell you people I’m not gay._

He knew it was a bad sign to speak to the voices in his head, and likely more evidence of the fact that he really was crazy, but Martin was almost relieved at the response. If nothing else, he could be frank with John.

_John, I made you. We both know what you are and how you feel. Anyway, now that we’re apparently on speaking terms, can you tell me how I get back to my world?_

_I have no clue how to help you there, mate. I’m just a part of you. You’re talking to yourself right now._

_No shit, Sherlock._

_Names John, actually._

_Fuck off._

Martin frowned, growing gloomier by the moment. It seemed he really was talking to himself. With a sigh, he leaned back against one of the walls as the scene came to somewhat of a conclusion. For a while, Martin let himself zone out, saying the lines as he had on the show and following Sherlock’s instructions.

“ _Fun_?! There is a woman lying _dead_!”

Martin tried to make the lines sound impassioned, just as he had in the show, but he was so emotionally exhausted by the day already it wasn’t coming out as his best work. Nevertheless, he dropped to the floor, trying to remember exactly what the lines were back in Season 1. Luckily, Martin remembered a decent amount from the first episode, despite it being so long ago, due to the fact they had to shoot the thing twice. He didn’t get everything exact, of course.

“Um, asphyxiation, I think. From—no, that’s not it. Um, she didn’t have any drugs or alcohol. Oh wait! No, maybe drugs, yeah that’s it.”

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow and flicked his eyes up and down Martin’s form. He squirmed a bit. Was it even possible that this man could tell that he was reciting from a script? Was Sherlock smart enough to deduce something like that? He gave a sigh of relief when Sherlock went on with the next line.

“You know what it was, you’ve read the papers,” said Sherlock. Martin stood up, dusting his hands off in a way that was too posh for John Watson.

“One of the suicides, yeah?” said Martin. The scene continued and Martin relaxed, comfortably checking out as Sherlock tore up the scenery, as usual.

_This ends with me killing a man_ pondered Martin gloomily.

_It’s not something we haven’t done before_ replied John.

_No, you’ve killed a man, I haven’t. I’m an actor for Christ’s sake, I shouldn’t be doing any of this._

When John didn’t respond, Martin let out a long sigh, only to realize, blinking, that Sherlock disappeared down the stairs. Just as in the first episode, when he finally made his way to the street, Martin was accosted by Donovan and Sherlock was gone.

“Hey—you’re not his friend, he doesn’t have friends. So who are you?” asked Donovan. Unlike in the first episode, John hadn’t bothered her first, as he remembered that they were in Brixton and knew vaguely the directions to the main road. Yet in that odd way in which the universe seemed to orchestrate things, Sally found him herself and began talking. Martin decided he didn’t want to appease her with his lines this time. Feeling a bit exhausted and also a bit ruffled, he let a small smirk when he replied to her.

“John Watson,” he replied simply. Sally frowned and crossed her arms.

“And who is John Watson?” she shot back. Martin chuckled self indulgently and crossed his own arms.

“That’s an excellent question.”

“Look, I’m not sure the nature of your relationship,” at this Sally sneered, giving Martin an appraising look that was equal parts critical and disbelieving “But a bit of advice. Stay away from that guy.”

“Why? Because he’s a high functioning sociopath or—whatever?” shot back Martin. The part of him that was John was blanching at the frankness. Martin wasn’t mad at Sally, per say, but ever since he’d read the first iteration of her in the script, he always found he didn’t care for the character. That was the point, wasn’t it? Moffat and Gatiss were good writers—they knew how to make unlikable characters just as well as they knew how to make likable ones. To some extent, Martin figured Sally meant well, but more importantly she was using John’s nativity as an opportunity to be catty and nosy. One clear difference between John and Martin was that Martin knew how this all ended—he knew what all four seasons led up to. And one thing that would be unclear to John for in 2, maybe 3, series was that Sherlock cared for John almost instantly. Sally was planting that seed of doubt in this moment, and while John wanted to hear her out, Martin was having none of it.

Maybe in this world, Martin could allow himself to care back.

“You know why he’s here? He’s not paid or anything. He likes it. He gets off on it. Weirder the crime, the more he gets off. And you know what? One day just showing up won’t be enough. One day we’ll be standing round a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there.”

“Are all your theories about your rivals at work this ridiculous?” Martin’s tone was light, but he watched Donovan with outer contempt and impatience “Oh, and let me guess— Lestrade is a BDSM swinger in a polyamorous relationship with the prime minister and Anderson. Sherlock’s been in on the whole thing for years, but it’s all a conspiracy. Is that right?”

Sally’s mouth fell open in shock, but then her eyes steeled in indignance.

“Look, you don’t have to listen to me, but I’ve known Sherlock Holmes far longer than you and I’m just trying to help you here,” shot back Sally. Before Martin could reply, from around the corner Lestrade called “Donovan” and without as much as a “Goodbye” Sally was off.

As he walked toward the main road, Martin was fuming over the conversation with Sally. It all felt a bit ridiculous. From John’s point of view, she was right—they barely knew Sherlock. And from Martin’s point of view his anger was pointless because they’d rehearsed these scenes loads of times and he knew how everyone felt about Sherlock at this point. Furthermore, Ben and Sherlock were different people, even if they had the same face, and Martin’s affection for the other man seemed pretty unwarranted. For all Martin knew, in this alternate universe, Sherlock truly was a sociopath and didn’t care at all about anyone. Still, it all seemed so wrong that Donovan would say such things about Sherlock, his new friend.

Martin was so worked up he didn’t hear the phone ring the first time around, or the second. By the time the third one started ringing, he paused outside the phone booth, then glanced up at the nearby security camera.

Martin flipped off the security camera before hailing a taxi.

* * *

 

During his side quest to retrieve the gun from his former apartment, Martin’s phone rung from an unknown number several times before lighting up with texts from Sherlock. Martin knew eventually Mycroft would get to him, but figured he could maybe put off the conversation one more day. It was only written in the script this early on to introduce Mark’s character and build the tension anyway.

_Baker Street. Come at once, if convenient.—SH_

_And what if it’s not convenient?—JW_

_Come anyway.—SH_

By the time the second text came around, Martin already found himself a second cab. He pointedly ignored the limousine that continued to follow after him like a shadow.

“221B, Baker street,” Martin told the cabbie. Something inside him warmed at the address, something that felt right.

_So demanding ;) —JW_

Martin bit his lip. He’d sort of shot off the text without thinking. It seemed that Martin’s lack of filter mixed with John’s adrenaline-junkie habits made a bad combination when it came to tact. Plus, admittedly, both aspects of himself were flirts, whether they wanted to admit it or not.

_You don’t seem like the type to mind.—SH_

_What’s that supposed to mean?—JW_

_That I can tell from your pupils to the way you hold yourself in tense situations that you don’t mind (if not enjoy) being told what to do. It is likely the result of your military service, if I were to guess.  —SH_

Martin reflected on this. In fact, it seemed to be that not only was Sherlock right, but he’d made Martin realize that yet again, he and John had something in common. Being an actor meant that Martin spent plenty of time listening to the feedback of directors, producers, and agents. Creating a character was certainly creative work, but a lot of what Martin did was take directions—and take directions well.

_I suppose. And without all that deduction magic, I can tell you like giving orders. Bossy.—JW_

_Bossy is a lot nicer than what most people call me. Thnx. – SH_

_Yeah, well I’m not most people.—JW_

_You certainly are not.—SH_

Martin bit down harder and stared at the tiny screen, as if trying to make sense of it all. Before he could reply, however, Sherlock sent another text.

_Could be dangerous. – SH_

In one sense, Martin knew these were the lines from the first episode, but paired with the last text it took on a new connotation. Sherlock really wanted to entice John home. Despite the continuous feeling that he was in a bad reproduction of Groundhog Day, Martin felt excited to get there. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So on one tab, I have the script for "A Study in Pink" written up and the stupid amount of research I've had to do for this fic for actor's names, Martin's life, and shooting locations is ridiculous, but I don't care. I have worked in the film industry so luckily I have a bit of background on that going into this. Also I'm used to writing slow burn fics, so 5 chapters is feeling a bit daunting right now because my most popular Dan and Phil fic is mounting on 15 chapters now and the characters haven't even admitted their feelings for each other yet. 
> 
> Anyway, sorry for the ramble. I'm planning on this fic spanning episode one, but obviously a bent version of it in which Martin makes his own choices. I hope it's reading well. Tell me what you thought about my choices below, as I was very uncertain about the conversation between Sally and Martin, as I don't want Martin to come across as too much of a prick since I think he's really a nice guy at heart, just like JW.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! I got this odd idea the other day and sat down to write this whole thing in an hour. Since my main focus right now is on my ongoing fic, I plan to update this one irregularly, but I do know there are only 5 chapters I had in mind. If you like this idea and want to see more, drop a comment below. Seriously, feedback motivates me more than anything to keep writing!


End file.
